


blooming through the snow

by ragequilt



Series: what we choose to keep [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Demisexual Reader, F/M, Reader-Insert, complete but also in progress, demisexual writer, the chapter six of winter garden that has accidentally grown its own legs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24092260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragequilt/pseuds/ragequilt
Summary: Feelings revealed and relationship consummated, perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise to you that Jaskier has a great deal of sexual experience. Or, perhaps the surprise instead is that he wants to share it all with you.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: what we choose to keep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738132
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	1. a promise made in fading light

**Author's Note:**

> this is what happens when you sit down to try to finish your first fic, discover that it sort of narratively feels like it's missing a chapter between five and six, write what you think that chapter should be, and then discover that that chapter is a really good excuse to write a companion fic that features a whole lot of sex
> 
> coincidentally, there is very little sex in this chapter alone -- this is a narrative vehicle for everything to follow, so we're really just getting our feet wet  
> see the end notes for tags for what happens in this chapter, sexually speaking!
> 
> any and all mistakes within are my own, because if there's another human i could show this to in its rough stages i don't know them.

You feel so much better, now that the truth is out. You’re no longer tied up in knots with worry about ruining your friendship and, if anything, you feel like your relationship has only been improved. Admittedly, one night and one conversation is not a lot to go off of, but...   
  
He has always been such a good friend to you, and in retrospect it was perhaps foolish of you to think that anything you could have said to him would have ruined your friendship. (Well, except for complimenting one Valdo Marx, who you are learning Jaskier has no patience for.)

You spend the morning after the party in bed — sleeping and then decidedly _not_ sleeping. In the light of day, in your bed with your heart free to feel however it wants, he is somehow more handsome, more beautiful, more compelling than any moment before. There had been a worry in your heart before — more distant now — that after sleeping together once, your sexual interest would fade. You hadn’t been much worried about your _feelings_ , but the desire to sleep with him...  
  
Well, there’s no need to worry now. You feel like an animal with the way your mouth waters if you think of him for too long. Or if you look too hard at the shape of his mouth, his hands, the drape of the blanket across his hips.

Once both of your desires are sated and you are curled against his side, waiting for your bones to feel more like bones again, you — talk. You’re not conceptually unfamiliar with ‘pillow talk,’ but this doesn’t feel like that.   
  
You’d thought you were conceptually familiar with sex, too, though, but Jaskier clearly has more experience and... you’re curious. Feeling far more virginal than you had when you’d gone into bed, somehow, you ask... a lot of questions. So many that he’s laughing by the end of it, and promising to show you everything that he knows.  
  
Even that wording feels sour in your gut, though you don’t mention that to him. Four weeks is not long enough for — for anything. For him to share the experiences he finds worth reliving, for you to get your fill of him. Four _months_ would not be enough time. 

Eventually, you make the decision to get up. It’s getting very late in the morning — more the afternoon, now — and you need to get yourself together if you’re going to make the trip to the market that you want to. You pull yourself from his arms and the warmth of the blankets all at once, for otherwise you may truly stay curled up with him all day.  
  
He’d brought over a rag and cleaned you both up a bit before you’d cuddled together, just a short while ago, but you take the time to scrub down at the basin in the corner regardless. You can feel his eyes on your back and for all that it makes you self-conscious, you don’t really mind. It’s a warm weight.   
  
You remember the vial Shani gave you only because your dress has a strange weight when you pick it up to hang it properly — you have a hard time even being in the room with it being so messy as you’d left it last night. Though, admittedly, there had been much more pressing matters.   
  
The potion tastes like damp flora and something a bit acrid, but you drink a mouthful as instructed, following it with some water. The little bottle may last you a week, if this morning is anything to project a pattern from. You are not exactly eager to tell Shani that she was right, but if needs must... Well, you’ll get there when the time comes.

You’ve yet to dress as you putter around the bedroom, slowly cleaning away the evidence of your hurried undressing last night. You’re a bit cool, but your robe is in the other room and you’re going to get dressed anyway, so you try to ignore it. You put your shoes away at the bottom of your wardrobe, and when you stand up — it’s right into Jaskier’s space.  
  
You jump but only a little, and when his arms curl around you, you lean back against him. His skin is warm, and his touch is soothing, and when he presses a kiss to your shoulder a shiver that has nothing to do with the air runs across your body.  
  
“You are such a tempting sight,” he says in your ear, voice low, and you can’t help but laugh.  
  
“And you just couldn’t resist?  
  
“Absolutely not,” he agrees.  
  
“I would love to indulge you,” you say, meaning it, “but if we don’t get a move on soon we really will miss the market.” You lay your arms over his and press him to hold you even a mite tighter. Whatever you can get.   
  
“Hmm, and there are things we need at the market,” he says, sounding not entirely sold on the idea. You can’t blame him; the idea of going back to bed with him sounds better by the moment.   
  
“Unfortunately, considering we’re out of the apples you’ve been enjoying so much. And oil for the bath.” You’ve gone through more oils since he arrived than you feel like you ever have.  
  
“Oh, well, then we’ll just have to take a bath when we get back,” he says, presses his nose against the side of your neck. “To get good use out of it.”  
  
“That’s a good idea. I’m filthy,” you agree, and he huffs a little laugh against your skin. You like being able to read him like this.   
  
“I will admit I have an ulterior motive,” he says, turning you to face him. You’re not exactly surprised by those words; you’d figured as much. Nose to nose, he says: “You may not leave the tub much cleaner than before, if I get my way.”   
  
“Have I ever kept you from getting your way?” you tease, leaning up to kiss him. Just once, though, or you really will never leave.  
  
“I think you will find that your exit from the bed did directly go against my wishes,” is his reply, and he leans down for another kiss, something so thorough it has your toes curling against the floor. When he pulls away, he looks rather smug. “But you’re right about the market. Let’s go.” What a tease of a man.

You get dressed and leave together, only slightly delayed by the endless distraction his body provides, clothed or unclothed. You walk out of the residential wing with your arm in his, with your basket hooked over your other elbow. Outside, with the sun shining and Jaskier so close to you, the memory of his kisses on your lips, the world seems much more beautiful.   
  
“I’ve got a couple of things to go looking for,” he tells you as you approach the square where most people are hocking their textiles and trinkets and things. The farmer’s market is another block down the way, to give everyone room to spread out.   
  
“I’ve not got anything urgent to get,” you tell him, looking over at the side of his face. He looks pensive. “Do you want me to come with you?”  
  
He goes pink, then, across his nose, and turns his face away. “No, I — well, it’s a surprise or two, I suppose. Depending on what I can find.”  
  
“A surprise for me?” you blurt, even though you feel silly immediately thereafter.  
  
He reaches up with his free hand and pokes your nose, smiling at you now. “Who else would it be for, my darling girl?” It shouldn’t feel so good as it does for him to call you ‘mine.’ You can’t put it out of your mind that there is a deadline on this, and then he’ll be gone. Back to — adventuring, and whatever else he does on the road. You’re trying not to think about it.  
  
Together you plan out a place to meet back up — you aren’t planning on going far, but apparently his “surprise” may take some real looking for. You wonder, briefly, what it might be. You wonder what you would want it to be, as he leaves, and you can’t come to conclusion on either front.

The herbalist you regularly buy your bath oils from is the first to catch your eye. She is speaking with a group of young women when you approach, and you feel free to sniff all of the bottles to find one that you like best.   
  
She’s expanded her wares since the last time you took the time to really look things over, which keeps you occupied further. She has assortments of bath oils, like normal, but she also has salts much like the one Jaskier had brought home for you once, and even some ointments.   
  
By the time the other customers have gone their way, you’ve made your selection — a bright and floral oil that makes you think of how you’d felt waking up this morning, inexplicably; and an ointment that is supposed to help keep skin soft and moisturized if her words are to be believed. (You are inclined to believe them.)

After, you wander sort of aimlessly. You won’t go looking for fruit until after you meet back up with Jaskier, but he _had_ said he would be a while. You have time to look around; maybe something will catch your eye.  
  
There’s a stall with soft woven blankets that you stop to look at, and more than one person selling small trinkets — jewelry and the like. There’s a man selling sheaves of paper and finely bound journals and... well. You’ve been meaning to buy more paper anyway, have been forgetting for weeks, but maybe Jaskier could... use something to remember you by.  
  
And you would want to give him something practical. You’ve never been a traveler, but you know that the weight of superfluous goods is just a burden. You never want to be a burden to him.  
  
The vendor is a good salesman — has plenty to say about the journals and how he bound them and shows you the quality of the paper — but you aren’t worried with those sorts of details beyond what you can figure out yourself. You care that they’re sturdy, and they have plenty of pages, and the one you pick has a smooth leather cover that has been dyed the color of the night sky.   
  
Perhaps you pay too high a price for it, but as soon as you laid a hand on it you’d known it was perfect. The salesman is pleased, at least, and you bid him a goodbye even as you sink back into your own mind, already thinking about what to say to Jaskier when you give him his gift.

You head toward the farmer’s market then, as planned, though you find Jaskier to be surrounded by a crowd of people and empty-handed to boot. He’s regaling a handful of people with a tale about — well, his witcher, surely, and what sounds like a... kikimore? It’s hard to understand everything over all the people, but you can still hear the sound of his voice and that’s all you can want for.  
  
You let yourself linger at the back of the crowd, looking around at his audience instead of giving him your undivided attention. You don’t want to embarrass yourself by being sappy all over someone as... well-known as Jaskier is.  
  
His audience is an interesting mishmash of people, at least. There are a couple of kids — young enough to be called kids, old enough that the gore in the story apparently isn’t upsetting for them. A man with a pack slung over his shoulder that has only just stopped to hear the rest of the tale. An older couple, with their shopping baskets sat down at their feet, listening with interest. A small horde of twittering women that are hanging off his every word — though that likely has less to do with the content and more to do with him being the one to tell it. You can’t help but sigh at that, though it’s not like you blame them either. He’s mesmerizing.

He does brush off requests to ‘sing the witcher song!’ with the excuse that he doesn’t have his lute on him, and you turn your attention back to his face as he bids his goodbyes to his impromptu listeners. That he makes a straight line for you, after, soothes your tense heart in a way you hadn’t expected, hadn’t expected to need.   
  
You know Jaskier is a sexual man, and even if he stays occupied with you for now, he will not remain occupied forever. You don’t think you could ask him to try, even though it makes your heart clench to think it.  
  
That he wraps an arm around your back and presses a kiss to your cheek should be more than enough. Is more than enough, makes your heart swell like you’ve been squeezed very firmly. You remember what Shani said, or the spirit of it — you can’t keep him forever, but you can make the best of what you can get.

“I didn’t expect to beat you here,” he remarks, taking your free arm to lead you into the rest of the market. You glance down to make sure his gift is hidden in your basket — you know he likes to snoop, and you don’t want to ruin the surprise. And besides, if he wants to take charge here, to lead, you will absolutely let him. The urge to pamper him with good food has still not abated.   
  
“I got a little distracted,” you admit, smiling at the side of his face. He’s making a pretty direct line toward the vendor that you’ve become well-acquainted with for selling those apples he likes so much. The man seems to recognize you and waves you both over with a smile as the crowd breaks.  
  
“You would _never_ ,” Jaskier teases, and when you reach the stall he lets you go to run his hands over all the produce that he can. He’s so — tactile. Just another item on a long list of things you love about him.

Eventually your basket is laden with goods, which means it’s time to return home. It might be nice, some day, to purchase a cottage somewhere close, to stop living in the university’s lodgings and perhaps even make something of yourself. But that day is assuredly not today, or any other coming so soon, so you both make the trek back through the city and across the bridge to the academy.  
  
Jaskier stops to convince the matron to send a bath up — and you think if he were any other man, someone would have at least _said_ something about how blatantly he is staying with you — and you hurry along upstairs. It’s a perfect time to stow away the gift you’d purchased for him, without having to worry about him getting nosy about you being suspicious after the fact.  
  
You set the oils you’d purchased on the low table where you’ve lately taken to keeping them; you’ve had so many baths in the last few weeks that you see no need to put them away. It gives the table next to the fireplace some use, finally, at least. Jaskier was right, when he’d called you out for not being much interested in _things_ , the other day. So much of your rooms are still sparse, undecorated.  
  
The fruit and the two bottles of wine you’d ultimately decided on after much discussion go on the sideboard table, and you leave the basket there as well for lack of anywhere better to put it. Perhaps you should do some tidying tomorrow, see if you can’t find all your oddments better homes. Or perhaps you won’t, and you’ll continue to leave your shoes in a pile next to the door.

“A bath is on the way,” is the first thing Jaskier says when he comes through the door. He’s already shrugging off his doublet — but then he seems to think better of it and heads for the bedroom instead. It’s strange behavior, that much you are sure of, but for all that you raise your eyebrows at him as he goes, you leave him to it. You won’t pry secrets from him; you’re not that sort of curious. It’s much more rewarding if he tells you of his own volition.   
  
He’s gone for a little while — long enough for the tub to be brought up and the first of the water to arrive. You busy yourself if only because it seems like the sensible thing to do — because staring down the maids feels more rude than trying to ignore them. You settle in on the couch with your latest text from the library to wait patiently until they’re done.  
  
You don’t look up again until you feel his presence behind you, feel his breath on your ear. When you look back at him you find that he’s leaned over the back of the couch, just reading over your shoulder. You don’t bother resisting the urge to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.  
  
“Your bath is ready, miss,” says the maid — you hadn’t even noticed her, and good on her for interrupting before you embarrassed yourself — and you thank her as she leaves.  
  
“Yes, miss, our bath is ready,” Jaskier murmurs into your ear, rubbing his hands up your arms and making you shiver.  
  
“Are you trying to say that I’m dirty?” you ask, already undoing your vest.  
  
“You’ll be dirtier later, I’m sure,” is what he says, voice so sultry that it makes your face go red.  
  
“Please tell me that is not how you entice people to your bed,” you blurt, laughing, because for all his voice was wonderful, the words were —  
  
“Well, it’s not my best work. Shall I try again?” He’s helping you out of your vest, laying it over the back of the couch and undoing the tie in your braid. His fingers in your hair feel like heaven.   
  
“I’m finding myself convinced despite my better judgment,” you say, which makes _him_ laugh, and — 

Making it into the bath takes longer than it ought to, but it is an enjoyable experience every step of the way. More enjoyable still when Jaskier asks you to budge up and slips himself in behind you, bracketing your body with his legs and curling his arms around your middle. The water level is high, almost worryingly so, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you’re being held in such a way.  
  
“I thought you were joking about sharing a bath,” you tell him, shivering as he noses against your ear. You can’t get away — and don’t really want to.  
  
“I would never do such a thing,” he says, presses a kiss to that same place. “It is all the easier to clean you this way after all, my dear.” His hands begin to travel — running up your sides, down your arms, finding your knees in the water. Everywhere he touches feels hot, and it’s not because of the bath. You’re never going to get used to him.  
  
“You are very dedicated to your duty, then,” you say, faux-impressed, and reach over the side of the tub for the soap and rag. Before he can stop you, you lather up the cloth and begin rubbing down his right hand.   
  
Not that he tries much to stop you, just makes a humored noise behind you and flexes his fingers when you move them. You carry on, wiping down his arms and even turning far enough to get his shoulders.

It feels a bit strange to be cleaning him like this, but it’s deeply satisfying, too. You can’t help but feel _connected_ to him as you soap up his skin, as he moves under your touch. Right now, he is a marionette and you are his puppetmaster — there is no resistance.   
  
His face is pressed against the side of your neck, over your shoulder, and his breath is warm against your skin. You wonder if you have put him to sleep — for it to be so soothing for you, it must be doubly so for him — but you find that is not the case when you try to turn to clean his chest. He tuts at you and holds you tight against him instead.   
  
The surprised noise you make isn’t intentional, but it comes out regardless. He nuzzles his nose against your throat, _definitely_ licking your skin, and you breathe out a sigh. You won’t complain about being in his arms.  
  
“I do believe I promised to clean _you_ , my dear,” he says after a moment, and you breathe a laugh. You don’t think it’s unusual to like to know why things — are the way they are, so to speak, and with regard to that, perhaps you had been somewhat worried that you had done something wrong when you tried to move. You feel somewhat on strange footing still, if you think about it too hard, and you’re half-afraid that you’re going to do something to ruin _this_ , now, and everything will collapse around your ears.   
  
“I suppose I won’t complain about being pampered,” is what you say instead of anything else, still affecting that snooty voice from before, but —

The first touch of cloth and soap to your skin under his hands feels so much different than doing it yourself. It shouldn’t send energy zinging across your body the way it does, for his hands to be separated from you by the fabric, but... The steady and almost _tender_ touch he uses to wash you does something to your heart, your mind. Your nerves. If this felt as good for him as it does for you, no wonder he didn’t stop you. You feel gratified in enjoying treating him, now.  
  
He runs the cloth down the length of your arm, from shoulder to wrist, and it feels just like last night when he’d helped you out of your dress. You roll your head back onto his shoulder, getting comfortable against his body, and you make no effort to keep in the satisfied noises that this gentle cleaning is pushing from your lungs. It’s not necessarily even sexual, just — pleased. You’ve never experienced anything like this before.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs against your ear, soaping up again and beginning to rub the cloth across your collarbones, down your chest. Despite it being so close to your face, you can’t smell the soap over the scent of him in your nose, not when you turn your face against his neck.   
  
You’re not sure what to say to the compliment, off-kilter in a new way, but you hum an acknowledgment. You feel like this soft treatment has tied up most of your words before they even make it to your brain.   
  
He soaps down your sides, under your arms, between your fingers. The cloth in his hand is making a meandering path across your body, and you’re finding it rather enjoyable, until —  
  
He passes the cloth across your breast and you think he may just be — well, not _platonically _doing it, but not doing it with sexual intention, except on his second pass he stops to gently pull at your nipple between his fingers, worrying it with the rough fabric of the cloth.  
  
“Oh,” falls from your mouth without meaning to, and you arch your chest into his hand, wanting more. It’s beyond arousing, and completely unexpected.   
  
“Beautiful _and_ sensitive,” he murmurs. Kisses your cheek. “I love it.”  
  
“I didn’t realize this was the sort of bath we were having,” you tell him, trying not to try to squirm further into his hand. It’s just resting there, on your chest.  
  
“I am a man of some will, but even I could not resist being pressed against you like this,” he says, chuckling. “If you are not opposed.” Now that you’re thinking about it, you can feel the line of his cock, obvious at the small of your back.   
  
“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m not interested in you touching me,” you tell him, perhaps too honestly. Your wants are too large for your body.   
  
“Is that so?” His voice is quieter now, somehow more sincere. “I wondered, considering… what we had discussed.”  
  
Oh. He means —__

____

____

“I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. Not ever, but especially not with me.” The rag is laid on your knee and his hand searches yours out, fitting them together. Your fingers entwine so nicely.   
  
“I’m not feeling pressured,” you tell him, honest as you can be. You may not have had the time for introspection that you might want, regarding all of this, but right now you just can’t bring yourself to care. “I mean, I don’t know how any of this works, really, but… I’m not afraid of you, Jaskier. If I decide I’m not up for it, I will let you know.” You shift so that you might see his face, wanting him to know how serious you are. The smile that spreads across his lips is growing something warm in your chest.  
  
“And you would be interested now?” He licks his lips and you can’t resist leaning in to fit your mouth over his, to show him your interest.  
  
“Touch me and find out, won’t you?” you suggest when you pull away from him, and there’s a flush on his face that you think has little to do with the warm water.

____

____

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had practice being such a temptress,” he murmurs near your ear as you turn back around, settling back against his chest. His hands slip beneath the water, curling around the inside of your thighs, and you squirm.  
  
“I must just be a natural,” you answer, voice quiet too. There is something tense in the air, and you don’t want to break it.   
  
“Or I’ve a bias, it’s true,” he says. He licks the shell of your ear and makes you shiver, makes you squirm again. He holds you a little more firmly in place with his hands, and you whine in the back of your throat despite yourself. He’s touching you but not _touching_ you, and —   
  
“You are such a tease.”  
  
“Patience will be rewarded, you know,” he says as if he’s speaking of the weather, but his hands finally move. One stays on your thigh, holding you open, and the other dances its way to the crux of your legs, to your sex. When he traces a finger across you, accurate even beneath the water, your knees fall further open.   
  
You huff a frustrated breath that makes him laugh, rumbling through your chest, but he does give in, then. He dips that questing finger inside you, like he’s testing the waters of your body. You wonder what’s thinking, but —   
  
Thought slips away some just because of how it feels. It logically shouldn’t feel like something special, for him to just — be inside you there, not stroking or stretching or even particularly filling. It’s just one finger. But you are struck taut regardless, a breath hissed through your teeth, and he presses his mouth to your ear.  
  
“Let me please you, hm? And then we’ll finish washing up, don’t worry.”  
  
“Don’t think I could argue with that,” you breathe. Cleaning up is so far from your mind right now. Your legs fall open a little further on their own — his other hand has slipped closer to press itself to where hip meets leg, and it’s a grounding weight that you may need just to survive this experience.  
  
“I do like it when you see reason, darling,” he croons into your ear, pressing another finger inside of you and holding your hip down as your body tries to jump. “Let me take care of you.”  
You breathe his name and let your brain shut off. His hands are something truly magical and you want to remember every moment of this without overthinking it.

____

____

Jaskier takes you apart in what feels like no time at all. If you had two thoughts to rub together you would think that it’s — not fair, really, for him to be so good at this, but… Well, you don’t, and he does have quite a bit of experience. Maybe it’s to be expected.  
  
The thing that really isn’t fair, though, is that when you try to return the favor, when your body is functional again, he makes a dissatisfied little sound and holds you close to him instead. His cock is still pressed against your back, something you can’t ignore, and the water is starting to cool. If you’re going to do this here you really ought to get on with it, and —  
  
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, apparently reading your mind, or just knowing your thoughts. “Remember what I said?”  
  
“…no?” How are you supposed to remember anything from before your brain was shaken thoroughly and returned to your skull? Are all orgasms going to make you so stupid?

____

____

“I’m going to wash your back, darling, and then we’ll get out of the tub,” he says, patient. Still holding you close.   
  
“Doesn’t seem fair to you,” you say, something unidentifiable but unenjoyable twisting in your belly.  
  
“Why is that?” he asks, even as he loosens his hold to find the rag where it’d gotten lost in the tub. You lean forward for him, trying to be helpful.  
  
“I — I mean, I… got off,” you say, stilted for searching for words that sound less crude. Every option is terrible. “I feel like I should return the favor.”  
  
“Hmm.” He soaps over your shoulder, down your spine. “It wasn’t a favor, really.”  
  
“You know what I mean, though.” He has to.  
  
“I do. But I wanted to give you pleasure, and you wanted me to, and that’s that.”  
  
“So you… don’t want me to please you?” You still feel a bit slow, piecing things together, and his hand slows from where he’s rubbing circles on your skin.  
  
“Not exactly. But… I have plans for you, later, and I don’t want to impede them.”  
  
“You’re sure?” Plans? You want to know everything, suddenly.  
  
“I’m sure,” he says, continues washing your back with new dedication. “Besides, rubbing down a lovely lady is easily just as satisfying.”  
  
“So talented, and funny too.” You sigh with something like happiness as he rubs your back, apparently having given up on the rag.  
  
“Oh, no, I’m being serious. Taking care of you like this is… really good for me,” he says, fingers skittering over your ribs.  
  
“So this is why you convinced your witcher into letting you wash his hair,” you mutter, just to hear him squawk.   
  
Except he doesn’t — just says “well, maybe. Though that’s less for my libido and more for my sense of smell.” He laughs, then, leans in and presses a kiss behind your ear in that place he seems to like.  
  
He scoops of handfuls of water and rinses your back with them, and —  
  
“You are going to let me clean _you_ , at least, before we get out?” You turn to pout at him, as convincingly as you can. “Please?”  
  
“There’s no way I can say no to that face,” he says, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I wouldn’t deny a lovely lady the opportunity to put her hands on me.”  
  
“Aren’t you just good to me,” you remark as you shuffle around, to face him. Something warm has pooled in your chest at the sound of him calling you ‘lovely.’ You pick the cloth and the soap back up and —  
  
“I am trying my best to be,” he says, so honest that it pulls you up just a little short. He’s smiling at you, though, soft and sweet.  
  
“Doing a very good job, then,” you say, because if you try to unpack his words and his expression, you may lose your nerve. The strange emotional tenterhooks you’ve been on all day had been mostly forgotten under his hands, but — well, they’re trying to come back, and you won’t have them ruin this for you.

____

____

You wash his chest, taking time to scratch your fingers through his chest hair. You don’t think you ever would have been generally attracted to chest hair, but on Jaskier it’s just… one more thing, on a long list of things, that you like about him. Maybe that’s the point though. Jaskier is special in every way, to you. You know the sight of it peeking out of his undershirts is going to rile you up, all the time.  
  
He doesn’t want you to — pleasure him, though, so you try to keep it utilitarian. You wash his chest, his ribs, his stomach, with as clinical a hand as you can. He’s still hard, though, and bobbing in the water — your wrist brushes his cock on a pass down to his hips, and he jumps just a little.  
  
Still, you play it cool. You can — follow instructions, and can follow what he wants. You know that the bone-deep need to _touch_ _him_ that hasn’t passed from even this morning is unusual, and you do actually want to defer to his experience. You don’t want to ruin those plans of his, after all. 

____

____

He turns around for you when you ask him to, a movement that finally sloshes water over the rim of the tub, and you shrug it off. It was going to hit the floor eventually, really.  
  
You do take the opportunity to plaster yourself to his back, though. He’s warm, especially compared to the water, and he’s soft and — well, he got to do it to you. You scoot your legs around him, press your chest against his back, and curl your arms around his front. He hums, relaxing into it, and you can’t help but squeeze a little tighter.  
  
“Aren’t you sweet,” he says, rubbing his thumb across your wrist where it’s pressed against his chest. He sounds pleased, and it makes you feel tender for him all over again.  
  
“I do try to be,” you reply, and he laughs. You want him laughing forever.  
  
After a long moment, though, you begin to feel restless, and — well. All that’s left is washing his back, so you might as well get down to it.


	2. power without taking any away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are revealed. An education is begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy howdy, it's been a week  
> i have never had more trouble writing anything in my life, I think, and I am cautiously proud of this chapter as a result.  
> thank you to everyone that sat with me through the fairly chaste chapter one to make it here.
> 
> see the end notes for tags for what happens here, sexually speaking!
> 
> all mistakes are my own, this was edited from the hours of 2-9 am and was somehow impossible to tend to. here's hoping it's sensible. 
> 
> chapter title is from "typewriter series #988" by Tyler Knott Gregson -- whose works are apparently just great titlemakers  
> 'You are the only  
> magic  
> I know of  
> that shows power  
> without taking any  
> away  
> in the process.'

The sun has dipped beyond the horizon by the time you’re done — a consequence of your late start and the longest bath of your life — and it is definitely time to eat something. Jaskier refuses to let you go to the commissary though; insists on going himself and asks that you start the fire instead, once the tub has been cleared away.   
  
It’s not a hardship of any kind to follow his requests. You think he has some kind of rapport with the ladies that run the commissary, and you don’t really want to put on all your clothes again anyway. Watching him pull on pants and a shirt to leave was hard enough — you do well to put on your smallclothes and your robes before falling into a comfortable place on the couch.   
  
You feel relaxed and warm, limbs still loose after… everything, and you distantly wonder how debauched this whole thing is going to get before it’s all said and done. (You resolutely aren’t think about things _being_ ‘said and done.’)

Jaskier comes back with dinner, pulling you out of your thoughts. How long was he gone? You’re feeling easily distracted, especially as you sit up and press yourself against his side. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, you can’t think of anything else. It’s shameful, considering you’d gotten off in the bath.  
  
You make conversation even though you aren’t really paying attention to what you’re saying — something about one of the ladies in the kitchens. You eat, but you don’t really taste your food. All you can think about is the warmth of his body, the way the light looks when it flickers across his skin from the fire, and the ways you’ve touched before. You keep coming back to — to the other conversation, when he’d said he had plans for tonight. Distinctly sexual plans.   
  
“When are you going to share your big plan with me?” you blurt into the silence that has easily formed between you, turning to look more directly at his face. You are so eager to know.   
  
He looks back at you, breaking from where he’d been humming a tune under his breath. You see where his fingers were counting time on his thigh. Oh, his hands. “Big plans?” he asks, blinking guilelessly at you. You dig your elbow into his side, just a little, and he laughs. “I do have some plans, yes,” he allows you, and then he turns away to take a drink.  
  
“You are so determined to drive me to the point of insanity with your teasing,” you mutter, but — it’s not as if you’re truly mad. He’d said it was for later tonight, more or less, and that means you will find out in time.

It does come out sooner than you’d imagined, all things considered. You finish before he does, leaning your head on his shoulder and watching the fire. Listening to him workshop music, even as quietly as he is doing it now, has been one of your favorite things about sharing space with him. Eventually, though, his bowl is empty.   
  
You move with the intention to settle into your usual evening routine — you’ll go find a book to read, he’ll pull out his notebook and use your legs as a writing surface, and you’ll while the night away — but he makes a noise that pulls you up short.  
  
“Let’s go to bed early, hm?” he suggests when you turn to look at him, and — you are not so innocent to miss the obvious implication of his words.  
  
“Consider it done,” you tell him, getting to your feet and reaching out to pull him up as well. He follows along as you drag him with enthusiasm you foolishly weren’t expecting to have, considering that this was all you’d thought about throughout dinner. Trusting him has always felt good, and whatever plays out tonight is sure to be something you’ll enjoy. 

He lets you tug him into the bedroom, lets you pull his shirt off over his head and undo the laces on his pants. Getting to undress him feels like a treat, even though you can’t bear to drag it out, to savor it. Your hands are trembling with pent-up energy; you want to put them everywhere at once. You could unwrap the gift of him every day, forever.  
  
You feel a bit like an animal again, mouth nearly watering as you take in the sight of his bare skin, the way he looks standing fully nude in your bedroom. It’s different from last night, when you’d been on the other side of a crying jag and a great deal of emotional upheaval. You’re less worried, for one, and it is that change that has made way for you to feel little other than unfettered joy.  
  
While you’re staring at him, feeling a bit dumbstruck, he returns the favor. Bridges the gap between you to undo the tie of your robe and slip it off over your shoulders. It hangs around your elbows and you don’t miss the noise he makes, in his throat, at the sight.   
  
“Putting a chemise on seemed like too much effort,” you mumble, half-embarrassed, but he catches your hand when you make a motion to cover yourself and steps in close, instead. You let the fabric fall to the floor when he pulls you against his chest, leans down to cover your mouth with his.   
  
“You are so beautiful,” he says, hands roaming your body. When he cups your breast in one hand and touches your nipple, you jump. There’s something in his touch that affects you deeply, but when you pay attention to how you feel beyond that, it’s nearly a tickle, but it’s a tickle that stokes the fire in your loins. “And you find new ways to surprise me, every day.”  
  
“This is only day two,” you return, feeling compelled to argue the point despite the fact that it doesn’t really matter.  
  
“You will find that this winter started long before yesterday,” he says quietly, like it’s only for you, and a shiver crosses your skin. _Oh_.  
  
You go up far enough onto your toes to kiss him again, leaning a bit on him for balance, and his hands find their way to your hips. It goes on forever, but still not as long as you want it to — you want to begin and end every day with his mouth on yours.   
  
The gentle tug of his fingers at your waistband draw your attention away from his talented mouth, and you pull a hand away from where you’ve been holding his face to — give him a hand in getting them off, or something. Not that he needs much help, for soon your underthings are on the floor and his hands are on your bared skin and —   
  
He steers you toward the bed not long after with the barest interruption to your kissing, hands still on your hips. You’re half-convinced your dance experience is the only thing that keeps you on your feet as you cross the room. You like this dancing with him just as much as the real thing, last night.

“Are you ready for your first lesson?” he asks, settling you down onto your back on the sheets. He’s still stood between your knees, looking down at you with such heat in his eyes that you can feel it on your skin.   
  
Lesson? What? Oh —  
  
“You were serious about that?” you ask, suddenly breathless. You curl your leg around his to pull him even an inch closer, and his hand comes to rest on your thigh. The sweeping motion he makes, from knee to hip, gets you ever hotter, and he laughs quietly, as if to himself.  
  
“I was definitely serious about an opportunity to have a great deal of sex with you under the guise of edification, darling.” Your face goes hot, now, at his words, and —  
  
“Maybe the first lesson should be in confidence,” you murmur, watching him watch you. You feel pinned like a butterfly. “I — wish I could talk to you the way you do to me.” As a thought it has already come up to you a few times already. There is an easy-going confidence that Jaskier has always been clothed in that you… You wish you could wear it, too.  
  
“Unfortunately, I think that will only come with time and practice,” he says, and he looks remorseful about it. “Except… I suppose I can say that you have no need to be shy, with me.”His expression is serious, intent, and you take a steadying breath.  
  
“Oh, well, if there’s no _need_ ,” you say, half-joking, trying to loosen your nerves. You trust him, implicitly and explicitly, and besides that — you can’t be him. Even though he has a wealth of things to share with and show you, you won’t be like him even if you do learn it all. If only you could rationally understand that and stop worrying that any wrong word or action would lead this to falling down around your ears.  
  
“I’ll help you practice,” he says, face softening. “And I promise, I won’t tease you.” _That_ makes you scoff. He’s such a tease. His mouth presses into a line, eyebrows high, and then — “Well, I’ll never tease you to embarrass you, unless you want me to. Teasing you into wanting me is different.”  
  
“Why would I want you to?” you ask, zeroing in on that to ignore the idea of him ‘teasing you to want him.’ You’re starting to think he’s already trained you to be weak to that one, and it’s only been a day.   
  
“Some people enjoy that,” he says, tilting his head to the side. Watching you still.   
  
“Being embarrassed?” It doesn’t make much sense.  
  
“Sometimes. Or being humiliated, though that may be a bit more than just teasing. Some people enjoy the idea of taboo, and some people enjoy being scolded as if they’ve been naughty,” he says, as if reading off a list. The way he says the word ‘naughty’ makes something hot spike down your spine.   
  
“Seems strange,” you say after a moment, wondering why the word did anything to you at all. That, itself, is strange. You don’t much like getting in trouble in any capacity, so surely you do not fall into the surprising set of people that are, apparently, aroused by that.  
  
“Perhaps to you,” he allows, rubbing his hand up your thigh again. “You don’t want me to tell you how naughty you’ve been, my girl?” There’s that same hot spike, but —  
  
“Have I?” you ask, feeling struck a bit dumb again, a bit off-kilter.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Been naughty,” you finish, feeling your face grow hot just for the saying of the words.  
  
Something soft passes across his face again, and he shakes his head. “It’s not so much about actually _being_ , in as much as it is about being treated as though you have been. Unless you actually want to, but even that is — well, it would be structured.”  
  
“So it’s a game of pretend,” you say, watching him watch you.  
  
“A very lewd game of pretend,” he agrees.  
  
“People really do that? Are they so bored in their sex?”  
  
“No, the ones who are bored usually just bed handsome bards at the inn,” he says wryly. Even you can’t help snorting at that. “But if it pleases them — or you, or me — to pretend for a little while, I can’t begrudge someone that. It doesn’t hurt anyone, after all.  
  
“I suppose that makes sense,” you tell him, still rolling it around in your head. “I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“The fact that you are here, with me, is all that I could want,” he says, leaning down to cover your body with his own, to bring your faces closer together. “I cannot stress to you how very little the rest of it matters to me.” He is, by his expression, very serious. One elbow is by your head and his other hand is on your side, a gentle touch. “But you seemed to want to — experience things, and I have experience to share. If that is not the case, at any point, you need only say so.”  
  
“You would… give me that power?” you ask, words falling from your mouth before you can fully put the sentence together in your mind.  
  
“The power to stop something if you aren’t enjoying it? Of course I would. It’s about mutual respect, and trust.” _And love?_ your traitorous, previously-silent heart suggests. But now is not the time to think about love — “I meant it when I said I did not want to pressure you. This is — not like a tryst with a stranger in a tavern, darling.”  
  
“Because we’re friends?” you ask, unable to _not_ ask, and he smiles just a little. It crinkles around his eyes, mostly.  
  
“Because you are very dear to me, and I could not live with myself if I damaged our relationship, or your opinion of me.” The sincerity that has always been present in your friendship feels doubly potent now, with his face so close to yours and the thrumming in your heart the way it is. Somehow, him returning your affections has made you _more_ weak to him, not less.  
  
“You are dear to me, too,” you tell him after a very long moment. You find his hand on your side with your own and entwine your fingers, squeezing briefly. _I love you_ , you think, against your better judgment.

The moment has gotten too heavy, like something other than just Jaskier on your chest, and you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek because it’s the nearest part of him. “So was that your plan for the evening? Playing pretend with me?”  
  
He sits back a little further, squeezes your hand in return. “Surprisingly, no,” he says, looking amused, and then he pulls away fully to dig around in the drawer of the nightstand at his side. What is he looking for in there? It’s just books and papers and —  
  
Oh. “I picked up some things at the market, today, that we might repurpose. If you’re amenable.” The way he looks at you as he turns back to face you makes you feel — shy, almost. So he really was thinking of you, before. “And if you’re not interested, I’ll surely find some other use for them.”  
  
Something fierce and possessive blooms in your chest, then, despite the fact that you have no idea what he’s holding. It’s just dark enough that you can’t really tell — not enough candles, eyes yet to adjust.   
  
But if — if he bought it for you, well, by the gods, you want him to use it with you. Whatever it is.

On your stomach, casual like you really are a table, he lays out his purchases. The first is a strip of silk; it’s just a few fingers wide but it pools on the blanket at your sides. Then, another strip — shorter, though not insignificant. Finally, a cold bottle of oil.  
  
Between looking at the array and looking up at his face, you know you must be wide-eyed. He says: “I don’t remotely expect to use these things tonight,” which is — well, a bit soothing. What place does fabric have in sex? “But I wanted to have — the best, for you, if it was something we wanted to try.”  
  
“I suppose I don’t understand,” you admit. You rub the fabric between your fingers, thinking about it. He steps impossibly closer when you bring your foot up onto the edge of the bed to relieve some of the weight of them hanging off the sides, and you look back up at him.  
  
“I want — to test the waters with you first, of course. Not just jump into things. But…” He thumbs the silk where it sits on your stomach, the rest of his fingers on your skin, and you shiver. “It’s just something to use as restraints. And a blindfold, possibly.”

You tuck those answers away for later, for thinking about. He said it wasn’t for tonight, after all. Instead — “And the oil? Is there a special sex oil and I’ve just never known about it?” You may sound a bit scandalized, you realize as you say it, but — oil? And Jaskier said he wouldn’t make fun of you. It’ll be alright.  
  
“It’s just linseed oil,” he says, smile spreading slowly across his face. You feel soothed just by the sight, feel yourself smiling back up at him. His easy-going nature — you love it. “There _are_ some ‘special sex oils,’ yes, but you would have to know what you’re looking for to find them. You won’t accidentally buy them for the bath or your skin,” he reassures you, picks up the bottle and turns it slowly in his other hand. “It’s just something to ease the way if we need it. I’d much rather be safe than worry about hurting you.”  
  
“Unless you want to?” Your mouth is just saying whatever it wants to, now.  
  
He makes a considering face. “Unless you wanted me to, I suppose, though I don’t much enjoy inflicting pain.” He sets the bottle back down and it rolls until it’s at your side. He touches your hip. “Do you _want_ me to hurt you?”  
  
“No,” you rush to say, looking up at him openly. “I just — I mean, that’s something people like, too, right?”  
  
“Ah.” He smooths his thumb over your skin and somewhere in the back of your mind, where you’re not paying attention to his face, it’s winding you up just a bit. “Yes, they do.”  
  
“Do you want _me_ to hurt you?” you ask him, watching his expression. He smiles, wry, and takes one of your hands up to kiss your knuckles. Such a charmer, this man.  
  
“No, not particularly,” he admits. Folds your fingers together to hold your hand again, and you nod even as you try to make things make sense in your head. “What are you thinking?”

“You just —” You gesture at your neck with your free hand. “With the woman from the inn, before. All those bites.”  
  
His face shows recognition, and he licks his lips. You can’t stop watching him. “Yes, I — well. Many people would consider a few love bites to be a bit different than the sort of pain I meant, before. Have you never had one?”  
  
“…no?” In what world would your hurried and generally un-fun trysts have had a place for something like that? If a boy had bitten you, you might have literally run away instead of only wanting to.   
  
His eyebrows go high, now, and his touch at your hip goes from just his thumb to the palm of his hand, seeping warmth into your skin. “…may I, then?” He bites his lip, watching you back, and you just — nod at him. You’re not sure what to say.

He seems to be, though, and seems sure what to do to boot. He pins the hand he’s holding to the bed as he brackets your body again with his, and he nuzzles into the space between your ear and shoulder. “Tell me if you - if you don’t like this, alright?”   
  
His knee comes up onto the mattress between your legs, and you feel as if you have a very handsome blanket.  
  
The silly thoughts fall away when his mouth touches your skin, though, fastening to the side of your neck. You’ve been talking so long, almost in circles, that you’d almost forgotten that he was naked. You can’t do anything but notice it now.  
  
His teeth scrape across your skin, followed by the wet press of his tongue. You arch up into it, your breasts pressing against the coarse hair on his chest, the solidness of his body. He hums and you turn your head away to give him more room, to let him do whatever he wants to you even though his breath tickles a bit, and —  
  
His teeth close down over your skin in a firm bite that has you jumping. It’s brief, just an instance of pain followed by his tongue as if to soothe it, and there is heat suffusing through your body like ripples across water. 

It feels like just a blink and then it’s over, and then he’s leaning back to look you in the eye, nearly nose to nose.   
  
“What do you think?” he asks, and you bring your free hand to the damp spot on your throat.  
  
“That can’t have been enough to leave a mark, right?” It is only vaguely sore, a pain that is quickly fading. Nothing significant. You’ve kicked tables harder than this.  
  
“No, but — well. If you didn’t like it, I —” he shrugs one shoulder, looks down at you helplessly. Your heart swells and you can’t help but smile at him.  
  
“Maybe I’m being optimistic but I think… I think I would like it. And I _would_ like something to remember you by.”  
  
“Going to forget me in the morning?” he teases, shuffling a little further onto the bed. You push yourself back to give him more space, and you’re rewarded by both of his knees between your legs, the press of his entire body over yours. You can’t help pressing back up into him, trapping his hard cock between your bodies.   
  
“No, but it might be nice to be reminded of tonight,” you croon, just to see whatever face he makes at your words. His erection twitches against your stomach and he takes a deep breath, and then he puts his mouth to good use — on yours, this time.

It’s not kissing like before. He is thorough, and dedicated, and you do your best to meet him in kind. The slow rutting of your bodies together comes more naturally than you could have expected, a rolling motion that you almost don’t notice you’re participating in. He’s so close to you and you shift to bring your knees up, to open your legs fully for him. To get him closer.  
  
He moves in easily, like water flowing to fill an empty space. It’s enough of a change of position that you think —   
  
You get your hand between your bodies, wrapping around his cock, and he sucks in a breath even though he surely knew it was coming. He’s slick at the head — there’s a cooling spot on your hip, too, from where he’s been leaking, and something about knowing that you’ve made that happen… It pleases you greatly. When you squeeze him gently it twitches in your hand, and you stroke him despite how awkward it feels to bend your wrist in such a way.  
  
“You vixen,” he murmurs, mouth leaving yours to go back to your neck. This time you can tell he’s not playing with kid gloves — the bite of his teeth on your skin is firmer, sharp and sucking. It brings a noise out of your throat that you didn’t know you could make, and fire is licking at your veins now. Your toes curl.   
  
The hand you don’t have on his weeping cock is still on his back, and you’re holding on for dear life. You want him ever-closer, inside you in every way he can be.

You’re far out of practice with — pleasuring men, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He moves to the other side of your throat and just — stays there, panting against your skin with his head bowed.   
  
“Does it feel good?” you ask him quietly, only half-thinking about what you’re doing. If you concentrate too much on the rhythm, on the pressure of your hand, you’ll mess it up.  
  
“So good,” he agrees. Turns his head to press a kiss to your skin. “Fuck.”  
  
“I assume that’s in the stars, yes,” you say, and he chokes out a little laugh, presses his face further against you.  
  
“If you want it to be,” he agrees, after a moment. He seems to gather himself — his mouth finds your neck again, sucks a bruise to mirror the one on the other side. _Oh_ , it feels so good. The _want_ , thrumming under your skin, is making your whole body tight.   
  
“I want,” you say, only barely breathing. His teeth are on your throat and you don’t want to disturb a single thing. 

Eventually, a lifetime later, he does leave off your neck. The bites are a throbbing reminder, pulsing along with your heart trying to beat out of your chest. He props himself up and looks you in the face, and you lick your lips as you watch him. He’s flushed, and his hair is a mess, and —   
  
He’s just looking at you, assessing, and you get your free elbow beneath you to lean up far enough to kiss him. It’s been too long since your mouth was on his.  
  
He meets you kiss for kiss and presses you back down into the mattress. You go, easy, because you like his closeness. He pulls your hand away from his cock and presses it into the bed next to your head, and when you stop kissing to breathe, you blink up at him.  
  
“Let me —” he says, and you’re so dazed you feel like you’re only barely seeing his face. You’d let him do anything.   
  
You hum and do your best to focus, watching him watch you again. Your hips are close, with this new position, and when he shifts in place his cock is _so_ close to where you want it to be.  
  
“Jaskier,” you whine, and he bites his lip, hums a breath.  
  
“Impatient, are we?”  
  
“Yes, sure, I’m needy, you’ve ruined me,” you rattle off. “ _Please_ just fuck me, you giant tease of a man,” you continue, saying whatever you think might work to get him inside you. You’ve wanted him since the damned bath, not including every moment during the day.  
  
“How sweet a request you make,” he murmurs, and the hand that isn’t pinning your wrist catches your attention. He sweeps the silk off your skin — you’d forgotten about it, how? — and then it makes a quick journey to the juncture of your thighs.  
  
He touches you gently, briefly, just enough to make your hips jump. Doesn’t even put a finger inside of you. He makes an amused noise, touches you softly again, and you don’t bother keeping in the grumbling noise in the back of your throat.   
  
“Again with the torture,” you complain, lifting your hips as though to get more contact, but he pulls away before you have any success.  
  
“I want to hold you down and tease you until you’re desperate for me,” is his reply. There’s a roaring bonfire in your body now, smothering you with want. Maybe you make a face, because — “Would you like that, darling? Want me to tease you with the idea of pleasure until you can’t bear it any longer? Or I could bring you to the edge of orgasm just to leave off, leave you wet and panting and wanting until I want to.”  
  
These filthy words are killing you. You try to rub your thighs together for _some_ relief, any kind, but he’s holding you open with his body. Fuck.  
  
“Please,” is all you can say, stretching your leg back out in an attempt to relieve some of the tension in your body, not that it helps. He smiles then, like normal, and looks benevolently down at you.  
  
“Maybe next time,” he says, and takes himself in hand, pressing the head of his cock against your opening.

You aren’t going to admit it to him right now, but maybe the teasing thing does have some merit. The way it feels for him to be inside you, after so much waiting — it’s overwhelming and perfect and you’re already shaking out of your skin.  
  
“Jaskier,” you breathe, looking up at him, pressing back to meet him. There’s a look of concentration on his face, but you think you can see the pleasure there too. Or perhaps you’re just projecting onto him. He blinks and looks at you, then, and —  
  
“You are radiant,” he says, apropos of nothing. His hand runs up the outside of your thigh, folds you up juts a bit differently. You let him, completely unconcerned with the way he contorts your body. Or, at least, unconcerned until you discover it means he can press in even further, until you’re flush together. Then, you decide you much enjoy it.  
  
You’re melting, it feels like your face is on fire and you’re sweating all over. When he begins to move, so slowly you wonder how he can bear it, it only gets worse.  
  
He leans in close, close enough that you can get your arms around his back and bring your mouths together, but he never stops fucking you. Even when he is panting just like you are, he still seems limitless. Keeps murmuring filthy compliments in your ear while your face is tucked against his neck, desperate for the press of skin against skin even now. If you had the presence of mind to think, you’d think that that feeling would have abated some in the face of this pleasure.  
  
He asks you to touch yourself, to find an orgasm with him, and your hand moves without you ever making the conscious decision. You’re slick and sensitive and it’s hard to keep a steady touch when your hand is wedged between your bodies, but by the gods, you make it work.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you — one second you’re touching yourself, face turned up toward Jaskier’s in his new position even though your eyes are tightly shut; then you’re coming apart, hand falling from his back to clench the sheets in your fist, an embarrassing noise falling out of your mouth.  
  
He talks you through it, not that you can hear what he says over the blood rushing in your ears. But you can hear his voice, and he’s still inside you, rocking gently into your body. When you recover enough to force your eyes open he’s looking at you, lip between his teeth, sweat shining on his forehead in the low light.   
  
“Jaskier,” you say, because his name is the only word you know right now. He says yours in turn, questioningly, and you can’t help but beam up at him. You feel good, loose and full of fizzing energy, sensitive on the inside where his cock is still stretching you open. “It’s your turn, now, you know,” you breathe, trying for conversational and completely unsure how to tell him you want him to come as soon as he can bear to, that you’d do anything he wanted to get him to that point.  
  
“So it is,” he agrees, breathing labored.  
  
“If you want,” you amend, and you’re rewarded with wink.  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t be long with you — looking at me like that,” he says, gesturing to your everything. It must be a compliment, incomprehensible as it is, and he bows his head to kiss your slack mouth as he moves in earnest once more.  
  
He’s not wrong. It doesn’t take long, even though your thighs are aching from the act of meeting him in kind by the time he falls over his own edge. He groans, deep and affected, against your mouth, and you curl your arms and legs around him a little further.

After, recovered, he walks on unstable legs to get a cloth to clean you both up with. You’re — half-afraid to move, honestly, worried about the mess, and so you lay there on your back and watch him walk around the room. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him naked, but there’s something compelling about the vision of his pale back, the divots at the base of his spine, his shapely bottom. He looks delectable even in the terribly low light. You’re wrung out, but you want to put your mouth on him anyway.   
  
Maybe he really has ruined you. Maybe… maybe you like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags for this chapter: discussion and performance of sexual education as a vehicle for sex, so much explanation of the practices of other people to get their rocks off, experiencing a hickey for the first time and absolutely over-discussing every bit of it. hmm. relatively chaste fucking, when it gets down to it. 
> 
> thanks to everyone for kudos and comments and coming by to give this story a try! please feel free to send me any ideas you might have -- this story is going to go on pause for at least a little while so I can hammer out the end of to grow a winter garden. if you'd rather not leave it in a comment, feel free to shoot me an ask or something.
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!

**Author's Note:**

> tags for this chapter: bathing together, reader gets fingered by jaskier in the bath  
> are these things that have to be warned for? no. would i rather over-tag than under-tag? absoLUTELY
> 
> any and all kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, and while I have some ideas for chapter 2, if there's something you would like to see, feel free to suggest it! if i can make it happen and make sense, I will do what I can! (i mean, I know what I like, but I am also a tender bitch, which is how we got here in the first place)
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!


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